


in any capacity

by Scientia_Fantasia



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Coming to terms with attraction, Fade to Black, Multi, OT3 Fluff, he loves them so muuu uuu uuu ch, indulgent snuggles, just absolutely. talking about emotions, why can't i tag james mcgraw as a character you cowards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 23:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14175249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scientia_Fantasia/pseuds/Scientia_Fantasia
Summary: “James...”He turned around, heart steady this time. Miranda was still standing in the doorway, a mischievous smirk having found its way to her face. “Are you coming?”





	in any capacity

He was still getting used to this. The knowledge that what drew him to Thomas was not solely a function of intellect and admiration--though that, undoubtedly, continued to play a large part. To have a name to put to that warmth in his chest at the sight of him, the magnetism of his eyes, his mouth, his hands--the barest hints of skin that appeared when the collar of his shirt shifted with some movement. The ever-present temptation of what might lie underneath. This feeling--it frightened him.

And excited him ever the more for it.

“James?”

His eyes snapped back to Thomas’, focus reluctantly trailing along behind it as he tried to piece together what point had been made while his mind had been wandering. Failing that--“Oh, I agree completely.”

Thomas opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then thought better of it, instead letting out a breath of laughter and looking back to the book laying open on his desk. “Anything-- _anything_ else, and I might have believed you were listening.”

James smiled before he could help himself, and shifted in his chair, leaning forward to cross his arms over Thomas’ desk. “Forgive me,” he said, heart leaping as he inched into unexplored territory. “I find myself...distracted.”

It took no time at all for Thomas to understand his insinuation--though his actions were not so hasty. His eyes--perhaps unbeknownst to him--flickered to James’ mouth. “Hm.” He closed the book, every motion of his hand steady and deliberate. It was maddening how much energy stirred under James’ skin just at the sight of those fingers slipping through the pages. “Well...”

The _click_ of the doorknob sounded behind James, and he immediately sat back, hand braced against the desk. He turned--and relief washed over him as he saw Miranda standing in the doorway, dressed for sleep. He sighed, pressing a hand to his face. Thomas, however, remained completely unperturbed.

“It’s late, my love,” Miranda said--or was there an _s_ trailing after that word, silenced by her smile? “Your debates will still be here in the morning. They always are.”

“Of course,” Thomas acknowledged, nodding his head. He stood, and circled around his desk.

James looked up, powerless to stop himself. Thomas placed a hand on his jaw, thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone.

“You are safe here,” he assured, quiet. Just for him.

James glanced away, tilting his head into his palm, just slightly. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Thomas smiled, though his eyes were somber, and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of his head before stepping away to join Miranda.

James took a breath, placing a hand on the desk to ground himself. He had hope this fear would one day fade. That he could remember that this thing he was discovering had at least one safe place to exist--to be made material. But did that fear have any reason to release him, when the rest of the world was nothing like the warmth that filled these walls?

“James...”

He turned around, heart steady this time. Miranda was still standing in the doorway, a mischievous smirk having found its way to her face. “Are you coming?”

Now-- _that_ was a pleasant jolt. He leapt up, chair screeching back, and Miranda held her arm out to him. He trotted over, not thinking to be embarrassed of his enthusiasm.

Thomas was waiting just outside the doorway, his expression...contained. The three of them set out towards their bedroom, James narrowing his eyes at Thomas in question. He reached out, taking Thomas’ elbow, then trailing his hand down to interlock their fingers. The sensation was just different enough from what he was expecting, the size of Thomas’ hand in his. “There’s something you’re not saying.”

He received a smile for his troubles. Even if it was one of resignation, it put him at ease.

“I hope,” said Thomas, gripping his hand, “you do not feel that...that some kind of retribution would come upon you if you denied a request from either of us. They are...they are just that. Requests. You are welcome in our home in any capacity you like.”

The hesitance with which he said the words meant more than their content. James stopped, and raised Thomas’ hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to it. “Welcome me,” he bade him, “in _this_ capacity.”

The goosebumps that crawled up Thomas’ sleeve were all the answer he needed. James continued on, Miranda falling easily in step beside him. He shared a look with her, some silent joke between them, and she laughed, briefly.

“I assure you, my dear,” she said, looking past him to Thomas, “his obstinance does not disappear simply because you’ve invited him to bed.”

Thomas laughed--partially in surprise--at the comment, and James gaped at Miranda, the back of his neck growing warm.

“ _Obstinance?_ ”

She raised her eyebrows, as if daring for him to disagree, but left little room to do so as she stepped ahead and lead them into the bedroom. Thomas shut the door behind them--and then wasted no time in following up on their flirtations from earlier, stepping over to wrap an arm around James’ waist and pulling him into a kiss. A kiss nevertheless still gentle, and hesitant, and everything that James _didn’t_ need it to be. He grabbed Thomas’ collar and pulled him closer, parting his lips and deepening the kiss, drinking in every sensation it brought. Thomas’ hands, suddenly gripping at his back--a rough patch where his razor hadn’t cut close enough--the fact that James’ had to look _upwards_ to meet him, and had, in fact, begun to lean forward onto his toes in his enthusiasm.

He fell back onto his heels and leaned away, smiling as Thomas unthinkingly sought after him before coming to himself and loosening his grip. It was almost unbearably endearing, and James bestowed one last kiss upon him before turning to join Miranda, waiting patiently by one of the bedposts.

Or perhaps not entirely patiently. She quirked an eyebrow as he stepped over, happily accepting a kiss from him before he wrapped an arm around her waist and turned to Thomas, smirking. “I get the feeling you haven’t had anyone in your bed in recent months.”

“Oh, there have been men in his bed,” Miranda said, slipping away from his grip just to step behind him and slide the coat from his shoulders. “He just hasn’t been there to enjoy them.”

She stepped away to stow the coat somewhere safe, and Thomas smiled in some mixture of fondness and embarrassment. And perhaps frustration. “It’s a delicate process,” he said--rebutted?--”As I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Oh, I’m sure I could,” he responded, reaching up and undoing the top button of Thomas’ vest. Then the next. And the next. “If my imagination weren’t so thoroughly occupied.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows, lips parting as a response died on his tongue. So James leaned forward to indulge it as he undid--perhaps fumbled--the buttons, soon pushing the vest off Thomas’ shoulders and immediately tugging his shirt up to be removed. For all of his teasing, James wouldn’t deny his own sense of urgency, something inside him starved for acknowledgement, something he hadn’t-- _couldn’t_ \--feed for years and years for lack of knowing what to call it, something locked away, banished if ever it had appeared. Something not more or less than what he shared with Miranda, but desperate after all the years of neglect.

Something--here, here it was. Here it was, in Thomas’ bare chest--in James’ hand reaching up to trace his collarbone--in the heavy beat of the heart he pressed his palm to. He glanced up to meet Thomas’ eyes, and was rewarded with a kiss, slow and tender, and perhaps this time it was exactly what he needed.

“James,” spoke Miranda, as she sat down on the edge of their bed, her voice as gentle as Thomas’ touch. He turned to her, though perhaps not entirely attentive as Thomas traced the lines of his temple, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Have you been with a man before?”

The question didn’t have a clear answer, and the decision wasn’t something he wished to consider too deeply in this moment. “No,” he chose.

“Is there...” Thomas begun, before frowning, searching for the words. “Are you frightened?”

This answer came easier. He couldn’t help but smile at how quickly it rose to his mind.

“No,” he said. He glanced down, then at Miranda, and back to Thomas. “Not with you.”

Thomas mirrored his smile, and pulled at the tail of the ribbon holding James’ hair back, those ginger locks spilling over his shoulders as it came unraveled.

“Good.”

* * *

 

What followed was the most wonderful of exhaustions, a warm, heavy cloud overtaking him as Thomas and Miranda lay to either side, crowded together on a bed more than large enough for the three of them.

There was something unique about drifting into that state while laying between a woman and her husband--or, perhaps more likely; there was something unique about the Hamiltons.

He opened his eyes to find Miranda smiling down at him, propped up on her elbow. She reached out and ran a hand through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. His eyes fluttered closed again as he hummed, content.

“Do you have business in the morning, Lieutenant?” she asked. He smirked, lazily, at the title.

“No.”

She glanced briefly at Thomas, laying unobtrusively by his side. “Will you stay?”

James huffed, amused at the very premise of the question. “The queen herself could not remove me from this bed,” he said. Then, peeking out from hooded lids and raising an eyebrow at her--“ _ma’am._ ”

She laughed, and settled in at his side, but not before reaching across him, offering her hand. “Thomas...”

James turned, following her gaze. “Thomas,” he repeated, in a considerably more playful manner.

Thomas--hardly having a choice--smiled, and shifted closer. James held out an arm for him, tilting his head up in a request that Thomas was more than happy to fulfill, sharing a languid kiss with him.

Thomas entwined his fingers with Miranda’s, and then found his place resting his head on James’ shoulder, sighing deeply. James pressed a kiss to his hair.

“Are you frightened?” he echoed, under his breath.

Thomas stilled. Then sighed once more, this one considerably less satisfied.

“Of losing you.”

James frowned, resting his head against Thomas’. What was he supposed to say to that? It was a fear he had himself, curled up tight and packed away so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge it. He had no words to combat it--and saying it was irrational was simply denying the reality they lived in.

“I’m here now,” he said, instead, moving his hand down to trace his fingers along Thomas’ spine. “I hope you won’t let the future distract you too much from that fact.”

Thomas chuckled, despite himself, and pressed his face into James’ shoulder. “I think I can manage that.”

* * *

 

He woke up some number of times, and went back to sleep that number, always lured back under by his unwillingness to leave the comfort of his lovers’ arms, until he finally woke to an empty bed.

He sat up and looked around, a sense of feeling out of place creeping up on him. Alone, the reality of his situation--the _oddity_ of it--was difficult to ignore. What was he supposed to do now? Could he leave the bedroom and risk being seen by the servants of the house?

Hold on--did they _know_?

He ran his hands over his face and dragged himself out of bed, picking his clothes off the floor and dressing before venturing out, doing his best not to look like he was sneaking around the very house he’d been invited into. He peered curiously into empty rooms as he passed, until he finally came across the Hamiltons, seated next to each other in the parlor. They were making quiet conversation, Thomas in his shirtsleeves and Miranda with her hair down, elbow on the back of the sofa and chin resting on her hand. She laughed, smiling brightly--and James was frozen, hand on the doorframe, unable to comprehend this thing he had in his life.

He was happy, and it terrified him. Never in his life had he been in possession of something he was so afraid of losing.

Then Miranda noticed him, glancing over, and Thomas followed her gaze, and they smiled just at the sight of him. He was completely helpless to do anything but smile back, and easily crossed the room when Miranda shifted, making space, and he found his place between the two of them.

“Good morning,” Miranda greeted, leaning up to press a kiss to the side of his face. He glanced, unconsciously, at Thomas, whose smiling eyes narrowed slightly in question.

And he wasn’t about to back away from that. James smirked and tilted his head, presenting the side of his face to Thomas as well, who laughed and relented, draping his arms around James’ shoulders and kissing him. And, comfortable at James’ side, he remained there.

“Breakfast must nearly be ready,” he said. “Are you staying?”

James blinked, smugness evaporating. That question didn’t fit into how he conceptualized this--or, how he thought he _should_ conceptualize this. “Am I--” he attempted, trying to find the words. “Is--is this the _sort_ of thing where I stay for breakfast?”

Miranda laughed, mostly out of surprise “ _James_ ,” she said, sweetly, placing a hand on his jaw to turn him to face her--“James, this is exactly as much as you want it to be. You’re not some...some object for our amusement. You’re our _friend_. And we want to take care of you.”

He stared at her, wide-eyed, enraptured by her bare, honest gaze. He couldn’t, in all honesty, believe it; believe that these two would want to include him in this way. That he could be so _lucky._

A knock came at the parlor door, and he startled, even as the Hamiltons calmly turned to address it. There was a servant standing there, who seemed to be completely unphased by the situation she had found them in.

“It’s ready for you,” she said. “When you’re finished here.”

Thomas nodded, turning towards her but still leaving an arm across James’ shoulders. “Thank you, Sarah. We’ll be right there.”

She smiled-- _smiled_ \--and dismissed herself, and James leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

Miranda laughed, wrapping her arms around him, one hand pressing over his pounding heart.

“It’s al _right_ ,” she reassured him. He huffed, smiling despite himself, and ran his hands down his face.

“It’s difficult to remember where we are,” he muttered.

Thomas ran a hand along his back, a comforting weight. "I understand," he said. “It gets easier with time.”

There was something in his tone of voice that made it difficult to disbelieve. James glanced up at him, looking for--something, he wasn’t quite sure what. But Thomas was all of it.

He sat up, taking a breath.

“Finally,” he said, in a voice that was meant to be teasing but was tinged with too much sincerity, “something that’s easier for having you around.”

His gaze stayed on the floor, heavy with the knowledge pumping through his veins. That his being here was a danger to these people whom he loved dearly--and that he didn’t think he could make himself leave.

Thomas’ hand found his, slipping under it and entwining their fingers together. Then Miranda’s followed suit.

They stood, and guided him upwards. He followed them.

Whatever the future may bring--at least he had this moment.


End file.
